Changing Your Mind
by B-RizzleDizzle
Summary: Booker Lively was born with the sight Trelawny claims to have. When she sees the prophecy of joining the Order, she flies from The States to London to wait for the time when she'll be needed. Snape/OC I don't own anything.
1. Chapter 1

To Be One.

"Booker? Sweetie, what's wrong?" Whaley had been finishing up the dishes from that night's dinner when her little girl - a spitting image of herself, aside from the eyes; the eyes were her father's - had shuffled in, sniffling and clinging to the doorframe. She kneeled in front of Booker and smoothed down the soft shock of platinum resting on her daughter's head, mussed from tossing and turning.

The moment Whaley touched her, Booker broke, flinging herself at her mother and wrapping her long, bony arms around Whaley's slender neck.

"Don't go away. Please, Mommy," Booker wailed, pressing her wet face into her mother's collar.

Whaley sighed. She had been afraid of this. Afraid of the sight her daughter had been born with. Afraid of the trauma her visions would enforce upon her. Whaley had not been born with this gift, but her great-grandmother had and had talked Whaley through key points when Whaley was so young. She hadn't understood at the time - had thought Meemaw was just ranting senilities. It wasn't until Booker could articulate what she was seeing when she would lose focus and stare off in the distance that Meemaw's lectures clicked. She had seen that her daughter would be born with the same gift, and she'd frantically scoured her brain to remember every detail of her time with Meemaw.

Giving Booker a long, tight squeeze, Whaley loosened her daughter's grip. "Sweetie, you know if you have a vision repeatedly for at least a year, it is more a prophecy than something that can be changed. I'm so sorry, Sweetie. I know that it's going to happen soon, but you also know that I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, and you are going to do great things with your life. Now come on; let's get you to bed." With this, Whaley lifted Booker in her arms and, turning off lights as she went, walked to her bedroom. Whaley sat Booker down on her bed, kissing her head with a soft 'stay put,' and turning to rummage through her dresser.

Booker sniffed and crawled up her mother's bed to position her pillows into a soft support to lean against, taking comfort in the sounds of her mother's rummaging and whispered frustrations at knowing it was 'just right here the other - aha!' Turning and leaning against the pillows, Booker watched her mother walk to the bed with a frayed, worn something in her hands.

"This," Whaley started, depositing in her lap as she sat next to Booker a matted, faded brown hat with what looked like were possibly bear ears at one point - one had been ripped off, leaving a good-sized hole with a few stray threads, and the other had stuffing poking out of a small opening along the seam, "is my worry hat. My best friend gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. She said to me, 'anytime you're feeling worried, or upset about anything at all, just put this on, and you'll feel better.' I'd like you to have it."

Booker looked down at the worn old hat and reached a tentative hand to take it and place it neatly on her head. It was too big for her, falling down over her eyes and dwarfing her head. Whaley smiled as Booker raised the front of the hat to stare back at her mother. Slowly, a smile spread across Booker's face, melting the stress and worry from every muscle in her face.

Whaley sighed with relief as she leaned down to kiss Booker's forehead and wrapped her arms around the tiny form, cuddling her close, humming softly, and rocking gently until she felt her little bundle go slack with sleep. She squeezed only slightly tighter, holding her daughter to her chest as if she wanted to absorb her, take her inside of her and keep her safe from everything. Her shoulders shook slightly as tears escaped her eyes, streaking thin, silvery tracks down both cheeks and landing silently onto her daughter's covered head.

Slowly, the tears ebbed, and she gently lifted Booker off the bed and silently carried her back to her own bed, laying her down and covering her with her thick quilt. Instead of leaving, Whaley sat next to the bed, leaning her head against the mattress, watching her sweet girl's face, memorizing every line, every curve. She sat for hours, staring, allowing the vision to seep into her heart, keeping it there, locked away tight, until she heard glass breaking from the living room. Quickly, Whaley lifted herself from the floor and hurried to the door. Turning the lock, she allowed herself one last glance at her beautiful girl before closing the door with a firm click. As she walked cautiously to the living room, she sent a prayer to whatever god was listening that her angel would stay safe.


	2. Chapter 2

With Canned Chatter

Booker waited patiently. Leaning against her car's still-warm hood, feet clad in red Chucks crossed at the ankle, the twenty-three-year-old was the picture of ease with her low-rise jeans, loose-fitting midriff tank top, and old, matted brown hat. She raised her glove-covered hands to her mouth, wrapped her taut lips around the end of her cigarette-style chillum, flicked the lighter, and inhaled deeply the delectable mixture of tea leaves and pot. She allowed the luscious smoke to rest in her lungs briefly before releasing the perfume slowly on a sigh.

She had discovered as a teenager that being a known pothead helped for people to write off any of her conspicuous oddities. Before, she'd been made fun of, made to feel like a freak. After finding green, whenever someone around her noticed her seeing something that wasn't there, they wrote it off as her just being high as fuck. She was even able to make friends, something that had previously eluded her.

The pot had never affected her gift. She would still see the exact same things and in the exact same clarity stoned as she did sober. The difference, she'd come to realize, was her reaction. Sober, her visions had felt strained, pushed upon her by some unknown force. Stoned, they just felt natural, a part of her soul. She had tried explaining it to Mama Hiram once after being caught, but Mama Hiram just slapped her and said, "if I ever catch you smokin' pot again, I'll kill you myself."

Mama Hiram had surprised Booker. She was a stereotypical portly old African-American woman… and she had the gift. Booker had struggled her whole ten years with her gift. She'd never had someone to teach her, guide her to control it. Then she was deposited on Mama Hiram's doorstep, six years of being shuffled from foster home to foster home under her belt. Once the social worker had introduced them and left, Mama Hiram had turned to Booker and said 'I've been waiting for you to show up.' There had been something about her tone, the way she said it, and Booker had known that Mama Hiram was like her.

Booker smiled slightly at the memory, flicking the lighter, holding the flame to the chillum, and taking another sweet, long drag. Her eyes closed and she saw a girl with perfectly bubble-gum pink hair – Booker had come to know her as 'Tonks' from other visions – coming out of the flat on Grimmauld Place and staring directly at Booker before walking away. Booker uncrossed her feet, stood up slightly straighter, shoving her lighter hand into her pocket, and waited attentively.

Booker glanced up; the sky had looked the same in her vision. It was time. Booker knew by that night, she'd be changing not only her life, but so many others'. This had been her choice. She thought she'd chosen right, but only time would really tell. Having the gift didn't mean you got to see everything that would happen, just everything that would happen with the current decisions made. It was an annoying loophole, Booker thought, but one that did give her faith in having a choice rather than having a destiny. She preferred to think she was doing these things because she chose to, not because she had to.

The door across the street opened slowly, and Booker's heart pounded in her ears. The pink-haired girl was looking at her feet hitting each step. Once to the last step, she looked up and right at Booker. They stared at each other, Tonks' face perplexed while Booker's held a knowing smirk. Tonks stopped, looking torn between leaving as previously planned and warning the people inside the flat about the strange muggle across the street, before carrying on as planned and walking away.

Booker watched her leave, smiling to herself for completing the first step. Blowing out through her chillum, Booker stowed the little one-hitter away in its wooden dugout and resumed her lax pose. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and reveled in the warmth of the sun's rays.

She waited there, alternating between leaning against the hood, sitting on the roof cross-legged, and leaning her elbows on the roof as she sat on the window frame, all the while taking smoke breaks to keep herself calm. She kept getting glimpses of that night, each one a bit different than the last. The man she needed kept changing his mind about something or other. She hadn't been able to pinpoint exactly what he was debating, but the outcome would definitely affect her.

By the time Tonks walked back around the corner, the sun had set and the first stars had started to prick the sky. Booker was waiting, standing at attention and staring at Tonks strolling purposefully down the walk. When Tonks noticed Booker, she froze. Booker watched Tonks glance around nervously before narrowing her eyes on the odd girl standing across the street.

Tonks didn't look away from Booker until she got the steps and had to turn her back to the muggle to climb the stairs without tripping. Booker watched her knock, then enter when someone answered. Booker knew it wouldn't be closed for long, so she eagerly looked both ways, then crossed the street in quick strides. Once she wrapped her hands around the rungs of the small gate, the door was opening again.

Booker watched a man that looked very out-of-place poke his head out to have a look at her. She was smiling in a way she hoped seemed inviting. The man murmured something to someone behind the door, then looked down the street both ways before coming outside to meet Booker. She watched the old man's long beard sway slightly with his robes has he made his way down the steps. When he reached the last step, Booker obviously surprised the man with her greeting, "Hello, Dumbledore."


	3. Chapter 3

Make Things Better.

Dumbledore stared at Booker with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape before shaking off his astonishment. He looked Booker over slowly; she seemed harmless enough. Even Alastor had said he hadn't seen anything threatening about her, and Dumbledore trusted the wizard and his magical eye. Making his decision, Dumbledore wrapped his long, slender fingers around a rung and swung the gate open gently, silently inviting Booker inside.

Smiling, Booker nodded once before stepping through the gate and passing Dumbledore to climb the steps. When she got to the door, it was opened by an invisible force. Hesitating momentarily, Booker took a deep, calming breath before crossing the threshold. Looking around, she noticed things she hadn't seen through her visions - the odd umbrella stand that a sudden vision showed her would swipe a claw at her when she passed too closely. Grinning to herself, she quickly kneeled down in front of the stand and waved her hand by one of the clawed feet then leaned back quickly as the claw reached out to nab her. Booker giggled with glee. This was the first magic she'd seen in real life rather than visions. Looking up at Dumbledore, who was smiling down at her questioningly, Booker slowly rose to her feet.

"Sorry. I've just..." Booker shrugged, "never been around real life magic before." Shaking her giddiness away, she continued, "Shall we speak in the living room so as not to disturb your meeting?"

Again, this odd muggle managed to shock Dumbledore. He had never heard of muggles being born with the sight before, and he wondered briefly if one of her parents might have been a wizard.

"The living room would be lovely," Dumbledore agreed. He did not gesture toward the living room. Instead he waited to see which way she would turn before following behind. He wanted to test her knowledge, find out if what she knew was being faked. He'd always been skeptical of the sight.

Booker turned toward the living room, keeping a wide arc around the umbrella stand. As she had expected, a stocky man with one magical eye was waiting for them. Booker smiled to herself; she had seen a lot of the man she knew as Moody and had liked him from the first vision. With the knowledge of how paranoid he was, Booker nodded a greeting and sat on the small settee furthest from him. She looked around the room, giving Moody and Dumbledore some semblance of privacy to share a look of confusion and disbelief.

Upon turning back to their odd guest, Dumbledore saw Booker smirking slightly as she looked around the room with a face that clearly read, 'I'm only looking away to humor you.' Dumbledore wondered how, if not from the sight, she could have known he and Alastor would share a private moment before turning to her. Dumbledore watched the girl turn back to face him.

Booker appraised the two men before adjusting herself on the couch to be more comfortable. Moody was the man she needed. In order to convince Dumbledore, she knew she needed Moody's seal of approval. She knew this could easily take all night, but she was ready. Her bags had been packed and haphazardly thrown in her old car, just waiting for Moody to nod Dumbledore his okay.

"I suppose we should get down to business," Booker started, feeling slightly nervous. "My name is Booker Lively. I was born with a gift that will be of great use in defeating Voldemort."

Moody sat forward in his chair as Dumbledore crossed him to sit in the seat across from Booker. He could tell she was nervous and had thoroughly rehearsed that line, but noticed she didn't flinch when she said Voldemort's name. This meant that she was either brave or didn't know better. His vote was on the latter, but so far she'd proven surprising at how much she understood. Maybe she would surprise him again. He nodded for her to continue.

With a sigh of relief at getting the go-ahead from Dumbledore, Booker turned toward Moody and started telling him everything. She told stories of her gift, things she'd seen in the past, things she saw for the future, how she knew of Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, how she'd seen Umbridge slowly taking over Hogwarts, would be kicking out Trelawny very soon, and why she'd come.

All the while, Dumbledore watched her talking solely to Alastor. He was intrigued how she could've known he would trust Alastor's opinion of her over his own. This girl, with her odd bear hat, gloved-hands, worried eyes, and taut mouth, was someone beyond anyone he'd ever met. As he listened to her recount the tales she'd encountered – things that no one but he or Moody could know and some things they didn't – he questioned the sight. This time though, he didn't question its falsehood, but its truth.

Dumbledore glanced at his friend, and saw a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of Alastor's head. Dumbledore smiled as he looked back at the girl, whose face was slowly breaking into a broad grin. Apparently, she too had caught the barely-there move of Moody's approval.


	4. Chapter 4

Be A Quack.

"Are you mad?"

"She's a muggle!"

"How could she possibly – "

"Silence!" Dumbledore exclaimed, stilling the room with a wave of his hand. "We are all adults and can behave as such. Now yes, Booker is a muggle, but she was born with a very powerful gift. You, my fellow witches and wizards, know how I feel about the sight. But this girl has even me questioning my beliefs on the subject."

A quiet murmer broke out around the room before a tall man with shoulder-length inky locks looking to be in his mid-thirties, stood and respectfully waited for a nod from Dumbledore before inquiring, "How do we know what she's saying is true?"

Booker had only seen a few visions of this man – she thought his name was Professor Snape – mainly tormenting the poor boy with flyaway hair and glasses she knew as Harry. The man she saw in her visions was not a man she considered worth knowing or liking, but she noticed he didn't say this comment rudely, just curiously. She respected the man for posing the question in a non-threatening way. Only her stoner friends had ever done that for her and she promised herself she would thank Snape once she convinced the congregation that she could be trusted. Of course, she already knew what plan of action to take. She had started thinking about it months ago, narrowing down the best ways to gain the councils trust by making different decisions and seeing the effects of each. Shoulders squared and taking a deep breath, Booker stepped out from around Dumbledore.

"I can prove it," Booker didn't have to raise her voice much as most of the congregation had quieted the moment they noticed her stepping forward, away from Dumbledore's protection.

"Do it then," the black-haired man said. He wasn't trying to be nice – he thoroughly doubted her so-called 'gift' – but his respect for Dumbledore kept him from being mean.

Booker turned her head back to the man from before. Slowly she turned her focus to her hands, slipping her fingers free of their soft cotton confines before stepping closer to the man. He stared at her questioningly until she lifted her hand out to him in a gesture that clearly told him she wanted him to take it. Slowly the man raised his own hand, wondering exactly how powerful she – a muggle – could really be. The moment his skin touched hers, they both took in sharp breaths.

Booker had always found it odd how her sight worked through touch. People touching her didn't automatically mean the other person would see her thoughts, but if there were no layer between her hands and another person, her subject would catch glimpses of her mind. She'd stopped touching anyone but her mom at a very young age, and still shied away from hand contact without barriers. Her mom had actually made the black cotton gloves she was wearing – one of the pair of matching mother-daughter gloves Whaley had made when she was little.

Her heart wrenched upon seeing the first glimpse of what Snape was thinking – the man as a boy hanging upside down in the air, a boy with flyaway hair and glasses laughing with a group of friends. Booker squeezed the man's hand as she saw a scene from her own memory come into focus, knowing Snape was seeing it as well – a teenage girl with shocking blonde hair being cornered by three girls, throwing her arms up to block her face as the middle girl throws a punch. Their visions intermingled, neither playing over the other nor fading away completely – the boy from Booker's previous visions studying with a redhead boy and curly-haired girl, the blonde girl losing her footing and falling to the ground, Snape's hand pulling Harry's face out of a bowl of water, the blonde girl's skin raising with smatterings of bruises and her clothes spotting with blood, Harry's look of astonishment and shame, a solid kick landing on Booker's head before a yelled 'freak' and pounding footsteps fading away.

Allowing their hands to fall apart, Booker stepped back and quickly pulled her black glove back over her slender fingers.

"She's telling the truth," Snape said dazedly, looking at this muggle in a whole new light. She had obviously lived one hell of a life, and she was very brave to willingly continue other people's scrutiny of her gift when she could easily just pretend it didn't exist.

The group didn't look much convinced and Booker knew she'd have to do the touch seeing again, so she turned to the man she knew would sway the most people in the room. All she needed was a majority vote; she'd worry about convincing any other non-believers after that. Booker pulled off her glove again with a sigh as she walked toward Arthur Weasley. Holding her hand out, she watched as the older redheaded man's eyes lit up with excitement and eagerly gripped Booker's hand.

Again, the first vision sent Booker's gut churning and her own memories melded with the man's – a younger Arthur looking down into the eyes of his first baby boy with eyes glistening, a small child wearing a bear hat sitting huddled in a dark room hearing screaming and yelling close by, Arthur comforting a crying Molly with kisses and whispered words of comfort and love, a portly black woman turning to a bony young girl and declaring how long she'd been waiting for Booker. As the visions faded, their hands fell apart and Mr. Weasley smiled broadly at the young lady before him.

"Now that was something," Arthur beamed. Turning to the rest of the group, Arthur declared, "She's the real deal alright. I've never known anyone that could do what she just did. Brilliant. Shall we put it to a vote then?"

There was a murmured agreement and Booker saw a flash of a room almost full of raised hands, and she started beaming before the vote had even commenced. She had done it again. Surprised everyone, and proven herself. She'd never been this open with her gift before, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying.


	5. Chapter 5

Like Gathering Clouds.

Booker was outside, pulling the sweet pot tea mixture into her lungs. After Booker had officially been voted into the Order, the meeting had adjourned and she'd excused herself. She was slightly overwhelmed by everything, but she felt the pot start to waft through her system, relaxing her muscles and causing an easygoing smile to stretch Booker's lips. She thought about everything that had happened in her past, and felt reassured that she could handle being in the Order.

The dark, night sky stretched overhead with pinpricks of white shining brightly. Booker's eyes slipped closed as she sat on the stoop of the flat. She saw Professor Snape and Dumbledore walking to her, Dumbledore asking if she would take the position of Divination teacher at Hogwarts. The vision faded as Booker heard the door open behind her. She quickly stashed the one-hitter away while turning to smirk knowingly at Dumbledore.

"We better leave soon if we want to make it to Hogwarts before Umbridge throws Trelawny out." Booker watched the old wizard look at her quizzically, and smiled when she saw understanding dawn.

With a shake of his head, Dumbledore informed her, "Severus will bring your luggage later. Shall we walk?" The headmaster turned and led the way down the sidewalk and around the corner. Dumbledore made another turn at the first back alley they crossed. About halfway down, Dumbledore stopped and bent near an aged, tattered boot, almost touching it before looking up at Booker. Watching the young muggle intently, Dumbledore saw her nervously reach out toward the boot, fingers stopping centimeters from the toe then looking to Dumbledore for the countdown.

"One. Two. Three."

On three, both Dumbledore and Booker grabbed hold of the boot. Booker thought it'd feel like free falling. She was wrong. It felt incredibly like she was being pulled – like a fisherman had caught her on his line and was pulling the hook that had lodged itself in her gut viciously back to him. Then she was falling, gliding across a hard surface, knocking off various objects in her wake, and landing with an 'oomph' on the floor. With a groan of pain and nausea, Booker slowly pushed herself onto her hands and knees before vomiting onto the carpet flooring. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Booker grabbed the corner of what she now saw was a desk and pulled herself up. She glanced at Dumbledore, who was looking at her with eyebrows raised in slight amusement. Booker moved her gaze back to the floor sheepishly.

"Sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

"That's quite alright." With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore replaced his belongings to their places and rid the carpet of the vomit. The various papers that Booker had scattered and wrinkled unscrunched themselves as they flew back to his desk. Ink that had spilled from the overturned silver well lurched rhythmically back to its source. Once it collected every drop of ink, the silver piece flew gracefully back to the desk and a red quill that had been waiting patiently for the well to fall back into place, slid softly into the pot.

Booker watched in fascination, eyes wide and nausea forgotten. When everything had landed in its proper place, Booker turned to Dumbledore, who was watching her reaction with amusement clearly adorning his features. Smiling, Booker turned to look out of the window. Turning back to Dumbledore, Booker sighed, "It's time." She followed as Dumbledore turned and quickly made his way toward the door. Booker didn't have time to take in her surroundings as they raced down the stairs and down hallway after hallway to make it to the entry hall, Booker watching Dumbledore's robes flow easily behind him.

Booker heard the crying and moaning of who she assumed was Trelawny as they began pushing through a crowd of students. She heard a woman's voice telling the poor woman she wouldn't have to leave Hogwarts. Booker recognized the high-pitched and girlish voice of Umbridge asking who she knew had to be McGonagall, "And your authority for that statement is?" Booker shuddered as Umbridge held onto the 's' like a hissing snake.

Once they'd made it to the middle of the crowd, Dumbledore stepped out and calmly stated, "That would be mine."

As she watched Dumbledore go back-and-forth with Umbridge, Booker noticed some of the students close by watching her curiously. She was sure they were seeing Booker's odd appearance and she quickly pulled her worry hat off, revealing short, untidy bright green hair. When she heard a few gasps of shock, she wondered idly if maybe leaving it on would have been more professional. She was left with no time to think further on this as the headmaster started introducing her. Stepping out of the crowd, Booker drew the attention of everyone that had yet to notice her.

"This is Professor Lively; I think you'll find her suitable."


	6. Chapter 6

With Courageous Patience.

Booker was sitting on her window dressed in a worn pair of jeans, t-shirt, and gloves, looking out onto the grounds of Hogwarts. Her bright green hair was still tousled haphazardly from her previous night's sleep, having never really been the kind of girl who cared about such things. She had been given the day of her arrival to settle in, and she'd taken the time to go over the textbook for the course. Casually inhaling through the end of her chillum, she scanned the plans she'd made for her first class. She had seen Umbridge would be there, and had ultimately decided to reduce the actual amount of teaching down as little as possible without being too obvious.

When she started to hear her first class – fifth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs – shuffling into the room, Booker blew out through her chillum before slipping it into its holder and sliding off the stone window ledge. She idly watched the class settle itself while making sure not to pay any attention to the very back of the room. Once everyone had their seats, she smiled slightly to herself.

"Alright class, I would like to firstly introduce myself. My name is Booker Lively, you will address me as Professor Lively, Professor L, or just Miss Booker. Secondly – "

Booker was cut short by a girlish cough from the back of the room. Grinning mischievously, the green-haired girl turned in Umbridge's direction and replied, "Yes, Miss Umbridge."

Booker watched her class turn their heads to see the stout little woman dressed in pink walk out of the shadows, before continuing in her grating high-pitched voice, "I was simply wondering… "

But Umbridge was left speechless when Booker chuckled in a most patronizing way. With a smile, Booker interjected, "I'm sorry, Miss Umbridge, you misunderstand me. I forget other people aren't as gifted as I. What I should've said, to make it easier for you to understand, was, 'Yes, Miss Umbridge, I did know you'd be coming.' Now if you don't mind, I'd like for you to sit down so I may get back to my teaching."

There were scattered chuckles throughout the room, and Booker was pleased to see a putrid sort of mauve color the apples of Umbridge's cheeks before she stepped back to her partially hidden seat. Lowering herself in a very dignified manner, she began to scribble notes furiously with her quill.

"As I was saying," Booker began, addressing the class once again. She was thrilled to see they were all sitting more at attention than prior to the incident – Ron and Harry especially. Booker continued, "Secondly, I would like for all of you to put your books away." Booker waited patiently, watching each student slide their books closed hesitantly, throwing skittish looks back toward Umbridge's seat. Booker could hear the scratch, scratch, scratching of quill against parchment, but she dutifully kept her eyes focused on her students. Leaning back onto the front of her desk, Booker continued, "What you think you know about Divination… forget it. It's not about textbook answers or literally _seeing _things in crystal balls." Booker pushed off her desk and started pacing slowly as she spoke, "It's about your feelings. The feelings you get when you think, see, or touch something… or someone. I was born with this. For me, it _is _seeing on top of feelings. For you, though. For you, it's harder. It's not just having feelings, but recognizing and understanding them – what they mean. Don't think," Booker stopped in front of Neville's desk, looking directly at the boy, "you can't do this. What I'm showing you," she moved away, resuming her pacing, "anyone can do… as long as they have the means, the discipline, and the right guidance. I'm here to guide you. This means that my door is always, _always _open when you need me. Any questions?"

She watched as a few students shook their heads while others looked rather dazedly. She sighed a bit, having figured she wouldn't keep all of their attentions, but hoping still that they'd start to perk up once they got started on the actual learning. Clapping her gloved hands together, she continued, "Alright then, lastly, before we get started, I would like to request from all of you to please not touch me. A big part of my gift is seeing through touching, so I would appreciate it if you would just help me out with that." Booker smiled when she saw even more heads slightly nodding their agreements.

"Okay, let's start with recognizing your feelings." Booker had ended up near her desk again and she promptly hoisted herself into a cross-legged position on top. "I'm going to project my feelings onto all of you. It sounds nutty, and it will feel…" Booker grinned, thinking back to how she had felt when Mama Hiram had done this with her, then laughing, "weird. You will fell an emotion that isn't quite yours. At first, you will tense, maybe panic a bit, but I promise it won't hurt you. I won't let it."

With that, Booker closed her eyes and sat up straighter, aligning her spine just so. She inhaled deeply through her nose, feeling a small ball of energy prick just below her diaphragm. Breathing out through her mouth, she inhaled again through her nose to feel the ball grow larger. As she kept her deep, steady breathing up, Booker pictured the happiest times of her life – her first lesson with Mama Hiram, the first time she discovered pot as a scapegoat, receiving her first kiss from one of her stoner friends, being told that her gift didn't matter. Tightening her diaphragm, Booker felt the ball of energy spread out through her gut, past her skin, and into the air surrounding her.

Keeping her eyes closed for concentration, Booker slowly kept expanding the ball, stopping every now and then to concentrate on her breathing. In practice, Booker had never actually done this, but Mama Hiram had at least taught her the theory. Booker was starting to get somewhat discouraged, until finally she heard it. A giggle escaped from the first row of students. Booker's mouth stretched into a slow smirk, using this happy thought to expand the ball of energy even further throughout the room. She would hear a soft gasp here, a restrained snigger there – all of which were making her mood happier, and in turn the ball of energy stronger.

Then it happened. The one sound Booker had been waiting for. The scratch, scratch, scratching of the quill against parchment ceased suddenly, a soft, girly hum soon following. Slowly, still concentrating on keeping the energy ball afloat, Booker opened her eyes to peer at Umbridge.

"Feeling alright there, Miss Umbridge?" Booker questioned, a toothy grin stretched across her face.

Another girlish hum from Umbridge told Booker she'd be getting a glowing report from the miserable old witch. Turning back to her students, all with matching wide, toothy grins, Booker started her lecture.

"This is happiness."


	7. Chapter 7

Even His Name.

One month. It had been one month since Booker started teaching at Hogwarts. The students seemed pleased enough with her, but she felt unease from the other teachers she'd met. Booker assumed it was because she was a muggle, and she couldn't find fault with their discomfort of having a non-magical being permanently invading their space. And she, as well as her fellow professors, held no delusions that she'd be able to go back to living a muggle life after this transition. She knew too much, and that could be a potential threat – a reason to take her out, leaving Booker forever looking over her shoulder.

She had started drinking tea again. It had been so long, and she reveled in finally not being on the run long enough to brew her delicious concoctions. For the first time in four years, Booker had unpacked every last bit of her luggage. She had lugged with her a basketful of things she wanted in her classroom every morning on her way to teach, and within a week, she had set up a home. Along one wall of her classroom, tiered wooden shelves had been placed, allowing her to store her jars of loose-leaf tea leaves, spices, and dried fruits and flowers.

She had started simple, using a spoonful of the dried petals she mixed with her pot to brew a steaming cup of sweet rose water, then a mug of bai mudan white tea mixed with dried peppermint – having just started some pots for fresh herbs on her windowsill with the help of Professor Sprout – and on to a more complex mixture of rooibos mixed with lemon grass and a pinch of cinnamon. She'd kept small jars of what she considered must-haves in her sleeping quarters, but she figured her classroom was the best place to keep the majority, since she spent the better part of her days in the little space.

Booker was just sipping her latest blend as her sixth year Slytherins and Ravenclaws shuffled out of her room when a shadow passed over her. Glancing up, Booker saw a young boy with platinum hair that rivaled her own natural color in its pallor. There were other similarities between herself and the older boy, and it unnerved her.

"May I help you, Draco?" Booker asked, setting her cup down softly on its coaster. Booker's brows furrowed as she saw the youth's eyes follow the movement and a soft blush rouging his cheeks. She didn't understand what could possibly be making Draco Malfoy blush. She knew perfectly well how he felt about having her as a teacher, having heard him throwing snide remarks around about having to learn from a 'bloody muggle.'

"I was…" Draco's voice cracked, causing the blush in his cheeks to grow stronger. He coughed slightly before continuing, "I just noticed that you like tea, and I thought I'd give you this." He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and thrust it in Booker's direction, explaining, "They're magical herbs I think might make some good teas for you. I've noticed you brew them kind of like potions, so figuring out those shouldn't be too difficult."

Booker stared down at the parchment, reading through the list, and noticed she actually recognized a few of the genus names. Looking up, Booker smiled at the young man and thanked him. With a nod, Draco turned and marched out of his professor's class. Booker set aside the list and began glancing over her syllabus outlines for the next week. She was grateful to Mama Hiram for everything she'd taught her and wondered idly if the old woman had known she would end up here.

Not wanting to get lost in thoughts of the woman that saved her, Booker shook her head and picked up the list again. She didn't want to ask Professor Sprout for anymore help with herbs. The witch, though extremely diplomatic, had shown much agitation when Booker had shown up in her greenhouse to ask for some small pots and soil to start the herb garden that she was now attending. The encounter had been somewhat disastrous and exceptionally disheartening, and Booker really didn't want to go through that again. She knew she could leave the castle at any time, and started thinking of disguises she could wear to take a daytrip to Hogsmeade on the weekend to buy the herbs listed.

As soon as she subconsciously decided of when the trip would be made, Booker's visions went black. Booker stopped squirting the spray bottle filled with water, cocked her head to the side, and concentrated on bringing a vision to the front of her mind. Slowly, the rows of her small clay pots filled with deep brown fertilized earth faded away to an empty blackness. Booker blinked, shaking the blank vision from her mind. She remembered the only other time she'd ever gone blank, knew blankness could only mean one thing, and she quickly thought of different ways she might get the herbs.

She thought of what Draco had said, how he'd noticed she brewed teas sort of like potions. With a small, hopeful smile, Booker closed her eyes and decided to ask Professor Snape, the potions teacher, if he could help her obtain the magical herbs. Immediately, Booker's vision came flooding back – she was sitting at the back of Snape's classroom, waiting patiently for him to finish his lesson, a small smile stretching across his lips as he assigned some mundane essay.

Once her soil pots came back into focus, Booker finished attending to her pots before turning to her desk. She grabbed the parchment up and made her way slowly out the door. As she walked down the quiet halls, Booker slipped the wooden dugout from her back pocket, loading her chillum with a skilled ease, and placing the filter end in her lips. Booker paused strolling momentarily to dig in her front pocket for her little lighter, her face scrunched up in concentration. A small hum of triumph escaped Booker once she'd fished the tiny blue contraption from her pocket. Storing the dugout again in her back pocket, Booker flicked the lighter, cupping the flame from any draft.

Inhaling the mixture deeply, Booker continued walking with graceful steps. There was a slightly feral movement to the way her muscles contracted as she walked. Having spent six years in shitty foster home after shitty foster home and another five getting beaten up and made fun of for being different, Booker had found pot, self-defense, and a best friend in Jeremy Avery at the age of fifteen. When the seventeen-year-old boy had saved her from a brutal beating, he sat Booker down and patiently taught her how to fight back.

He had been the first ungifted person she'd met who didn't care about her weirdness. The first time she answered a question before he'd asked her, Booker had gone wide-eyed and tense, sure she was about to lose the only friend she'd ever had. Instead, she'd gotten an affectionate hair ruffle and, "That's my little psychic." Booker had been stunned, but from then on out, Little Psychic had been her nickname to Jeremy. She missed him – missed the way he understood everything without really trying.

As Booker drew near the dungeons where she knew Professor Snape's classes were held, she brought herself out of her reverie. She could hear Snape sneering an insult about some poor kid's potion. Booker slipped into the classroom unnoticed and sat in an empty chair behind the back row of students. The wizard was looking down his hooked nose at a boy with messy black hair. Booker sighed to herself; he was tormenting that poor Potter kid again. She understood now that he reminded Snape of his tormentor from his schooldays, but she couldn't comprehend why he was unable to differentiate his tormentor from the boy before him.

Booker was torn from her thoughts as the students began shuffling from the dank, stone room. Once the last few students made their way past her, Booker stood and stepped carefully toward the front of the room. Passing black cauldrons, Booker found herself peering at each workspace as she passed them, wondering what kinds of potions they learned to make and if it, like divination, was something anyone could do.

Upon hearing a shuffling of feet when all students should have been gone, Severus turned with a scowl on his face. He was surprised to see the new divination teacher walking toward him, looking around at the cauldrons as she went. The dark-haired wizard waited patiently for Booker's attention to come back to him. His scowl maintained its place on his lips, not forgetting that she'd seen his darkest secret only weeks ago.

Booker finally made it to the front row and looked up to see Professor Snape watching her. She felt her cheeks grow slightly warmer, but maintained steady eye contact. Gripping the parchment in her hands, she asked, "I was wondering if I could get your help with something."

Severus quickly asserted Booker's appearance, checking for any signs of hostility. Finding none, he summoned a chair opposite his desk and motioned when he noticed Booker not moving toward it. The motion seemed to break Booker out of whatever trance she'd been in, and he watched her scuttle over to the proffered chair, ghosting her gloved hands over its arm as if to make sure it was solid, before lowering herself into it.

"I just don't get magic," Booker laughed softly to herself before looking up at Snape, who had cracked the tiniest hint of a smile. Booker thought it better to not comment on this however, and instead passed the list over to her colleague. "A student of mine – Mr. Malfoy – gave me this list of magical herbs earlier. He thought I'd enjoy mixing them with my teas, but I don't really have a way of getting my hands on them. I was wondering if you could help me."

Booker watched Snape look down at the list, the minute smile he'd had now dropped to a frown. She could feel her own smile faltering, and wondered what she'd said to make him frown like that. The longer Snape looked at the list frowning, the more worried Booker became, thinking of rescinding her inquiry and forgoing any magical herbs in her teas. Before she could make the offer though, Snape looked up, his eyes cold.

"Who did you say gave you this list?" Severus' voice was deadly and chilled Booker.

Shrinking back slightly, Booker said hesitantly, "Draco Malfoy – really pale, platinum hair, sort of a prick from what I can tell…" Booker trailed off, realizing she probably shouldn't have said that last part, but knew she couldn't really take it back now that it was out there. Instead, she shut her mouth, and looked at Snape expectantly, surprised to see the tiny hint of a smile back on his lips.

It was the second time Booker had amused Snape with her bluntness. Instead of worrying her – her eyes already seemed permanently pinched in worry – he agreed to bring the herbs by her class the next day and watched her smile her thanks, and turn to walk out of his class.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I told myself I wouldn't do this, but after I uploaded this chapter, I realized I didn't like it as much as I thought I would. I had the outline, but I went off script with the Harry and Ron part and it turned out not as powerful as it seemed in my head. I'm sorry for that and for rewriting this chapter. For those who've read this chapter, start reading a paragraph before the break. For those who have yet to read this chapter, begin here.**

Known It Always.

Booker was humming softly to herself as she glided down the stone steps. Knowing children often fed off the emotions of their superiors, Booker had smoked more than usual in order to keep a completely relaxed attitude. Dumbledore had disappeared. Of course, Booker had seen this, was expecting it, but knew the old headmaster had everything planned out and under control. There was never a need to warn anyone, so she simply kept quiet.

Once she'd made it to the great hall, Booker headed toward the head of the Gryffindor table. Harry was sitting with an angry scowl across from Ron and Hermione, looking at Harry with worried expressions. Booker stopped beside Harry and looked across the table.

"Hello, Hermione. I'm Miss Lively, the new divinations teacher," Booker watched Hermione's head nod in acknowledgement and continued, "I was just wondering if you'd be willing to stop by my class during your lunch period. I'll have food for you, so you won't have to worry about not eating."

Hermione looked at Professor Lively disbelievingly. What could the new divinations professor want with her? Slowly, she answered, "Um, sure Professor. I'll be there."

Booker smiled, "Great. I'll see-"

Her sentence was cut off by a vision that came in quick flashes – the boy sitting on the other side of where Booker had stopped; a boy in green robes waiving his wand; a flash; the poor Gryffindor boy slumped over, pale, shaking, sweaty, and obviously in pain. As the last flash faded, Booker's eyes focused on Hermione's questioning face. Quickly, Booker glanced up at the ceiling that reflected the outside sky before pivoting on her foot to be positioned to block Neville.

She barely had time to register the flash of light she glimpsed speeding toward her before she felt it. Booker gasped as her stomach tightened and twisted. She heard an exclamation around her as she fell, rolling onto her side and clutching her stomach, eyes shut tight. She felt large hands on her, lifting her, and her body began to seizure as shivers racked up and down her spine. Booker decided her organs were definitely rearranging themselves inside of her. She groaned as a particularly painful twist made Booker wonder how long it would be before one of those vital organs popped from the exertion.

As suddenly as the pain set it, her body settled. Booker took a gasping breath before opening her eyes, seeing Madam Pomfrey standing over her. She was in the hospital wing, and she quickly sat up to see Professor McGonagall and Hagrid watching her.

McGonagall's mouth was stretched thin, her eyes wide with disbelief that this girl had actually seen something. She'd had a heated debate with Dumbledore about this girl the night he brought her to Hogwarts, but he'd been firm in his belief of her gifts. Having heard the account of what happened from Miss Granger though, Minerva had to admit even she was starting to believe.

"Sorry about that. I couldn't just let him get hurt like that," Booker apologized, shrugging her shoulders. She groaned, clutching her still sore stomach as she sat up, blatantly ignoring Madam Pomfrey's tutting. "What was that, anyway?"

"Why are you apologizing?" Minerva was outraged at this. First, the girl saved a student from certain turmoil and then she was apologizing for it. "It was an entrails-expelling curse. I don't know where that Slytherin boy learned it, but Professor Snape is taking care of his punishment right now."

Booker nodded, sliding slowly off the bed. Madam Pomfrey immediately tried pushing her back down, but Booker was having none of that.

"Madam Pomfrey, I have to teach my classes. A little curse isn't going to stop me."

Madam Pomfrey huffed in annoyance; she didn't like when her patients dismissed her, but she also didn't feel completely comfortable around this muggle. Instead of pushing her back to the bed and demanding she stay for observations, she handed Booker a bottle. "Fine then. Drink a good gulp of this every hour for the next twenty-four hours. Don't miss it or you'll be right back in here."

"Got it," Booker said, taking the bottle with the hand not holding her stomach. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey."

With a huff of indignation, Madam Pomfrey sped off. Turning back to Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, Booker exchanged pleasant goodbyes before slowly making her way back to her classroom. The students that saw her passing and had heard the news would stop and watch her pass with wide eyes. She smiled her greetings as best she could, but didn't stop to make conversation with anyone. Madam Pomfrey may have given her a potion to drink every hour, but Booker knew this nausea would go away sooner with a few good hits of herb.

By the time she made it to her class, the students were seated and ready to begin. Booker was happy she could give them some basic reviews now that they'd successfully finished learning the plethora of emotions she'd thrown at them. She knew there was no better way to teach the identifying of emotions during readings than to give them actual readings. That would leave enough time to smoke then walk around and help each student.

Leaning on her desk, Booker instructed, "I would like for all of you to break into pairs. Each pair should get one tea set and a bag of tea that box." Booker gestured toward a small wooden box she'd filled the previous night with little baggies of different tea mixture. "Today we're going to review reading tea leaves with what we've learned. As it's a review, we'll only be spending one class on this. I'll be around in a minute to help each of you that needs it. You may begin."

Watching her students begin the task, Booker slipped behind her desk and opened the top desk drawer. She discreetly pulled out a small silver pipe, baggie, and lighter before heading to the windowsill. Booker thought it'd be best, with the pain she was currently in, to smoke straight pot instead of her usual mixture. Sitting on the ledge with her back to her class, she loaded herself a small bowl and began to smoke. After a few puffs, Booker felt her muscles begin to loosen. She was still sore, but she knew she'd feel much better once the full affect of the weed hit her.

Booker closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh outside air, opening her eyes as she sighed. Turning slowly, Booker slid off the windowsill and inconspicuously deposited her wares back in her desk drawer. She was walking gracefully again, an easy smile settling on her features. She stood briefly at her desk, watching Harry and Ron working. They were so young, too young to fight in the impending war. But there they sat, chatting quietly while drinking their teas, not knowing the full weight of what their decisions did.

* * *

><p>Soft foot steps caused Booker to look up from her weekly lesson plan. She smiled, setting her work aside and rising to greet her guest. Booker watched Hermione walk through the door, startling at the way the young professor seemed to expect her entrance. She had prepared for her guest, asking the elves to bring up a small sampling of food, but just as Hermione started stepping toward Booker again, a vision flashed. Once her focus returned, Booker smiled.<p>

"I'm sorry. You won't be staying for your lunch period, but I just wanted to ask if you would consider taking divination lessons from me. Not for your O.W.L.s of course, but just in your free time. I think you're a smart enough student to learn the things I can't teach you – the things only wizards could do." Booker watched Hermione's disbelieving expression before saying, "Oh! You don't have to give me an answer right away. Just think about it."

Hermione was about to respond when a dark shadow caught her eye. Turning her head, she noticed Professor Snape standing in the doorway, a small box tucked under his arm. He looked down his hooked nose at the student, arching one brow and holding back a sneer.

"Right well, I'll think about it then, professor." Hermione turned to leave, wondering what Professor Lively could teach her that no other student could learn. After what she'd seen just that morning, Hermione thought this muggle had a lot more right teaching divination than that bloody fake, Trelawny. A queasy thought cuased Hermione to stop and turn back to Booker. "Professor, do you already k now my answer?"

Booker breathed a laugh, shaking her head. "No. I see the outcomes of decisions made. You haven't made your decision yet." Booker watched the young witch cock her head, thinking. She nodded to herself, seemingly pleased with Booker's answer, before turning and heading toward the door once more.

Once the Gryffindor know-it-all had left the classrooms, Snape stepped forward to Booker's desk. His mouth pursed, not really smiling, but civil enough. He set down the box he'd pulled from under his arm on the desk, lining its contents up alphabetically on the old wood surface. He watched Booker in his peripheral, picking up a small glass jar and examining a label. Her hair had gotten slightly longer, leaving a small streak of white blonde hair between the green and her scalp. Severus' eyes watched her face contort from interested to puzzled. She'd noticed. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice.

"Why didn't you bring me the herbs from the list?" Booker set the jar down with soft clunk of glass on wood as she turned to face Professor Snape.

It surprised Severus, not hearing accusation in her question. She was inquisitive, perplexed, but not critical. Knowing what she'd gone through just that morning, he was surprised to see how at ease she seemed. Her left hand rested gracefully against the desktop, creamy skin clashing with cherry wood, with the other hand tucked deep into her from pocket, pulling the denim further down her hips. She oozed calm, cool, and collected, and she was making him feel the same.

"They were poisons." He had expected this statement to break the feeling of relaxation that encompassed the small classroom. He didn't expect Booker to nod in apparent understanding – though understanding of what, he wasn't sure.

"That explains it." With a shrug, Booker walked to her tiered shelves. Slowly she began rearranging the glass jars, making space for the new arrivals.

"That explains what?" Snape didn't understand this girl. Placing the bottles alphabetically on the shelves, he watched her walk back for the remaining jars, pausing briefly.

"My future went blank when I decided to get them myself, then I thought of asking you and my future returned. I didn't know the exact cause until now, but thank you for saving my life." Booker smiled as she resumed rearranging the different herb jars. "And you don't have to worry about punishing Draco; I know it would look too suspicious if you did. He doesn't need to know I know."

Snape was stunned. She'd responded to the explanation he had prepared. He'd thought she would be mad, upset, something, but this odd young woman had done it again. All she seemed to do was surprise him.


End file.
